


Heart Like A Stone

by pandoras_chaos



Series: Holland Road [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, Sherlock Holmes had completely ripped his life in two, reconstructing it in a manner that suited his own needs and leaving John to try and play catch up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Like A Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to scarletcurls for the quick beta! This is a continuation of Though There's Cracks You'll See, but not quite a series. I've labeled it as such for clarity purposes only. As ever, the boys do not belong to me (thank god, or they'd never get anything done), but to the obscenely more clever and brilliant minds of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and everyone else at the BBC. Title stolen shamelessly from Mumford & Sons (again).

**Heart Like a Stone**

 

John's mind stutters violently into awareness. His body is tensed and ready in the pre-dawn light as he takes in his immediate surroundings. He is sprawled out on his shoulder on the left side of a bed (not his bed, his mind supplies) with someone very real close to his back. He can feel heat and the steady swell of rhythmic breathing on the other half of the mattress, though thankfully his skin is not touching anyone else.  
   
Then he remembers. Oh _god._  
   
Carefully turning onto his back, he squints over in the dim light, half convinced this is another horrible dream his brain set out to torture him with. He's had similar imaginings over the past three years, even though he has suppressed them as best he could. Looking over with some trepidation, John watches as Sherlock's chest rises and falls steadily with each indrawn, very real breath. John's mind races ahead, putting all the pieces together of the past twelve hours: the text, the hospital, the flat and their overzealous reunion. Jesus, how the hell was he going to get past this? He has completely lost his mind. Sherlock is here, definitely here, and John is nearly certain they are both naked. He wishes he could have blamed alcohol for this, but the only drugs in his system had been overwhelming endorphins and a heady sense of desperation.  
   
He sits up slowly, registering his bladder's incessant demands. For all Sherlock's reassurances, he had clearly drifted off sometime in the middle of the night and is now sleeping like the dead. The already yellowing mark on his cheekbone makes John flinch and he knows Sherlock is sprawled out on his back to ease the pressure on his bruised ribs. Sighing in resignation, John tiptoes out the door and into the bathroom.  
   
The overhead light is completely unforgiving and John is startled to see the line of clear teeth marks trailing along his collar bone and down his sternum. He hadn't realized they would stand out so harshly and curses his damned English skin for its pasty contrast. He takes stock of his body and finds his left hand to be sporting a set of rather impressive bruised knuckles, though that isn't exactly surprising. The dull ache in his thighs is, again unsurprising, but warm and satisfying all the same. He knows he should be alarmed at the thought, but the physical evidence of what occurred last night has him itching to get back to bed. His mind repels the thought, reminding him firmly of his heterosexuality and the very lovely, willing woman at home in Brixton.  
   
Oh god. _Mary_.  
   
The guilt is overwhelming, making his stomach roll with embarrassment and disgust. He marches out the door and finds his lab coat thrown carelessly over one of the armchairs in the sitting room. He fumbles in the pockets until he finds what he is looking for. The light on his mobile blinks like a steady heartbeat and with every shimmer of green light, John feels more and more despicable. He has eight texts and two voice messages, most from his very real, _very female_ girlfriend.

   
 _The hospital called and said you'd gone home ill. Everything alright?_  
   
 _Look, I'm sorry for what I said. Please call me and let me know you're ok._  
   
 _Honey, where are you?_  
   
 _Seriously John. You're starting to scare me. Everything ok?_  
   
 _Where the hell are you?? Please call me_  
   
 _I phoned your sister, but she says you're not there. What the hell is going on??_  
   
Two texts from Harry:  
   
 _Sure you can stay if you want. Let the dog out at 7. Sorry about the milk._  
   
 _Jesus. Stop being a dick and call your gf for gods sake._

The voice messages are very much the same: Mary finally breaking down and phoning him, the worry etched clearly through every syllable and a berating lecture from Harry about how his girlfriend shouldn't have to call _her_ to get information. John sighs and realizes he's standing stark naked in the middle of his old flat, receiving lectures from his alcoholic sister about leaving his worried girlfriend home alone while he buggers his old, presumed dead, very _male_  flatmate. He shivers, but he's uncertain if it's from the cold or the thoughts racing through his brain.

Suddenly, the idea seems preposterous. Surely he had lost more oxygen than he'd thought when he'd nearly fainted at King's College and his poor besotted brain had muddled information, making him delirious. Perhaps somebody drugged him when he wasn't aware. He looks down at his flaccid penis, cursing his thought process and feeling the prickles of shame spread through his limbs. It's already half seven and if he has any chance of sparing his lunatic mind, he'll get out of this flat immediately and get home to his hopefully forgiving girlfriend. Sherlock cannot possibly be alive and although the sitting room looks like a crime scene, there's no conclusive proof that this whole thing hasn't been a chemically induced hallucination brought on by the stress of his mobile service, too little sleep, a lack of proper nutrition and a spectacular row with Mary.

He is just gathering his thoughts in the direction of finding his denims when his steps on something cold and small on the floorboards. Looking down cautiously, he peels back his foot to reveal a plastic button, the pearlescent sheen catching the dim light through the dust covered windows. His heart clenches and he bends down to pick up the fastening. Evidential proof of the activities that occurred here. Crime scene, indeed.

John swallows thickly, the sob catching in his throat. Still clutching the plastic button his clenched fist, he moves slowly toward Sherlock's bedroom. Peering around the doorframe, his pulse leaps to attention. Dark curls sprawled carelessly across moonlight colored pillows, pale skin luminous in the early morning glow, one hand reaching subconsciously across the slightly rumpled sheets as though searching for someone that is no longer there. Sherlock's eyes are still closed and his breathing is even and deep. John watches as his eyelids flicker in dream, the dark smudge of his lashes painted across high cheekbones in softening defiance of his angular face.

John suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe and he leans into the doorframe for support. Sherlock is undeniably beautiful and John's heart breaks a little at the thought. This impossible man has no right to be alive when John mourned him solidly and completely for three full, miserable years. He never thought he'd see Sherlock again except in dreams, and oh, what dreams they were. The silent conversations he'd been having in his head over the years seem to come back to him in a flood of emotion. Sherlock's voice, so clear in his mind, telling him to _look harder_ to _observe more_. Mary had accused him of being obsessed on the few occasions he'd been fool enough to share his thoughts with her. She'd thought him mad, though she would never say it.

"The stages of mourning are different for everyone," she had said gently, a little too much understanding in her kind eyes.

John knows all about the "stages of grief," has gone over them _repeatedly_ with Ella for what feels like decades. She is frankly sick of hearing about his grief for this particular man and John can completely understand that, if he's not entirely sympathetic. His life had revolved around Sherlock; in a way the man _was_ his life. Until he was gone. Then John's life was consumed with the grief of no longer living. How can you be inclined to live when the breath is sucked out of you in one slow fall from the roof of an unremarkable building. Sherlock wasn't the only one who had died that day, John is well and fully aware.

And now looking at him, seeing his body whole and undamaged across the sheets in their shared bed is breaking John in a way he wasn’t aware possible. Once again, Sherlock Holmes had completely ripped his life in two, reconstructing it in a manner that suited his own needs and leaving John to try and play catch up. Two roads stretched ahead of him now, and John could see both of their outcomes with startling clarity.

His life with Mary is safe. It is full of love and life and a happiness he isn’t entirely sure he deserves. She is a wonderful woman who loves him dearly, though she will never fully understand him. She cannot comprehend his need for danger. She will shuck it off as a testosterone confused haze brought on by his military background and the trials of readjusting to civilian life. He could be incredibly content with Mary. Perhaps they'd get married and have their two-point-five children, a dog and a picket fence around a small cottage in Surrey. It would be comfortable. It would be safe.

But John Watson has never been one for safety.

Life with Sherlock had been harrowing at best. Sherlock's idea of beating boredom usually involved bullet holes in the plaster or intravenous substances in his veins. John had gotten shot at, tackled, stabbed and shoved around more often in the underground workings of London than he had in his three tours in Afghanistan. Mycroft had been quite correct: When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the city as a battlefield. Sherlock would never be comfortable. The idea is positively ludicrous. And yet Sherlock’s version of life appeals to John on a baser level that speaks volumes to his conscious mind. He would never need to go looking for danger with Sherlock around. The man practically drips adventure and John’s leg has never felt better than it does chasing Sherlock’s coat tails. Sherlock is far from comfortable and he will certainly never be safe.

John feels like he’s on the edge of a precipice and in one solid motion, he makes his choice.

Stepping over the threshold, John sets the small button on the bedside table and slides back between the sheets. Sherlock instantly curls around him, all long limbs and awkward angles and John is happy, _truly happy_ , for the first time in years. For now, at least, he is content to lie in bed and run his hands through dark black hair that curls around his fingers like it’s always meant to. As though it’s been waiting all this time just for John’s fingers and the joy of their reunion sings through every even breath against his chest.

When Sherlock finally wakes, eyes bleary and a slow smile stretching his lips, he leans forward and immediately presses his mouth to John’s.

It is slow this time; all the nervous tension and unrelenting need from last night melting away in measured deliberation and warm reassurance. When John takes Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, it is with reverence born out of adoration and he’s sure Sherlock can tell the difference. Sherlock gasps and arches beneath him, pupils blown wide and breath hitching in his chest as he simply says “ _John_ ,” as though it’s the only word in the English language sensual enough to voice his affection. The lack of urgency takes John aback and he feels the moments stretch into hours. He could spend eternity in this bed with this man, shutting out the rest of the world with absolutely no regrets.

He finds it difficult to believe he had not identified these emotions before, but of course he knows he had. He just didn’t know there was a word for such a feeling. _Love_ seems too pedestrian, too understated for the way his heart is swelling with every gasp slipping between Sherlock’s lips. His chest feels constricted and expansive at the same time, as though if he breaks contact even for a second, he will shatter into a million pieces across the floorboards.

When Sherlock comes, it is on a slow exhale, his limbs languid and heavy against the bed. John drinks him in with every last fiber of his being and he knows now he can never go back. This was a decision made for him long ago and he his powerless to resist.

“I was unsure you’d be here when I woke,” Sherlock says many minutes later, hand tangling in the silver-blonde hair at John’s nape. “I was certain it was another dream. I _have_ dreamt of you, John. Often.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” John whispers honestly and he can feel Sherlock’s smile on the top of his head. _Sentiment,_ John thinks wryly, but lets the matter rest. They lay that way for what seems like hours, but is in reality probably minutes, until John’s mobile pings on the night stand. He raises his head from its comfortable perch on one of Sherlock’s pectorals and reaches across the sheets towards the device. Sherlock beats him to it and in a slow stretch of ligaments and sinew that John finds breathtakingly beautiful, he retrieves the mobile and hands it to John in one fluid motion.

The text from Mary is entirely unwelcome and John feels the unease settle thickly in his stomach. He types out a hasty reply, assuring her that he is indeed alive and well and apologizing for his prolonged silence. With a promise of lunch later in the afternoon, he sighs and settles back against the pillows, guilt gnawing at his insides.

Sherlock is studying him with an air of alarming uncertainty. “Mary?” he asks simply and John is hard pressed not to jump at the low rumble. He doesn’t even bother to ask how Sherlock knows about her, just nods once and buries his face further into the long expanse of pale skin.

 "Is there anything I can do?" Sherlock asks, noting the tension in John's shoulders and correctly assessing his thoughts. John sighs again and shakes his head. He knows exactly the situation he's placed himself in and he realistically knows he has only himself to blame.

“She’s worried about you,” Sherlock says, stroking his long fingers down the length of John’s spine. John knows it and the nausea at the thought of what on earth he’s going to say is nearly overwhelming. She’s a very understanding and caring woman and John knows he doesn’t deserve her forgiveness. If he’s honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure he wants it. Sherlock is nuzzling into his hair and the feeling is simultaneously wonderful and heartbreaking. Feeling as though he is physically tearing himself away, John shifts up the bed and out of Sherlock’s arms. The knot in his shoulder is starting to ache and he rolls his head back, trying to ease the pressure. Today is not going to be easy, but for some reason, he cannot regret the events of last night. He will never regret anything ever again.

::

A trip to Tesco clears his mind slightly. The crisp air of the mid-November morning creeps through the cable knit of his jumper and slices into his skin like tiny knives. He idly wonders how he’s going to make it back to the hospital to retrieve his coat before his lunch date with Mary, but his heart isn’t really in it. He smiles as he realizes he’s left his heart between rumpled bedclothes in a stale and dusty room one street away, and then chides himself completely for being a lovesick moron. He’d be writing crap poetry next.

He wanders up the aisles, piling the essentials into his little hand basket: a carton of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, a box of PG Tips, a sack of sugar, a jar of marmalade, some frozen pasties, a stick of butter and a pack of ginger nuts. He’s almost to the check out when he remembers other essentials and he doubles back for toilet roll, a bar of soap, a tube of toothpaste and two new toothbrushes. He’s not sure when Sherlock arrived at Baker Street and isn’t certain how long he intends to stay, but he’d bet his life the man came unprepared. The whole affair seems remarkably domestic and John’s legs wobble slightly at the thought. His life hasn’t felt this natural in ages and the idea that he’s picking up groceries for his flat with Sherlock rocks through him like a tidal wave.

The plastic handles dig into John’s hands as he walks back up the road to Baker Street and the constant pressure on his already bruised flesh is like a talisman. The steady throb of his knuckles grounds him somehow and he’s glad of the shopping swinging so normally against his leg. His life seems totally surreal at the moment. Yesterday he was at work, valiantly soldiering on through a life that never belonged to him. Now, the insanity of life with Sherlock back in it is making his pulse jump with anticipation.

The door is still unlocked when he pushes the latch and he swings up the stairs, already half expecting it to be empty, but it’s not. Sherlock is still there, dressed immaculately as ever in one of his slightly dusty suits, scrolling through texts on his mobile and looking mildly put out. He glances up as John deposits the shopping onto the worktop and immediately snatches at the biscuits. John allows himself a quiet smile and digs around in the boxes for the toaster. Sherlock’s already found the kettle and it bubbles softly in the background. The memory of those first few mornings alone in the flat suddenly stabs through John and he finds his hands shaking slightly as he plugs in the refrigerator and sorts out the settings.

The machine is starkly empty and John finds himself absurdly missing the severed body parts among the leftover take away and margarine tubs full of dubious liquid. The eggs, milk and butter look lonely on the shelves and John wonders if this whole thing is a terrible mistake. When he closes the door, Sherlock is studying him with one hip leaning against the sink.

“You’re confused,” he rumbles and it’s not a question.

John sighs. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He works through the motions of tea and toast, noting with bemusement that half the ginger nuts are already gone. Sherlock doesn’t continue and John resigns himself to strained silence as he butters the toast and smears marmalade on half the slices. Steeling himself, he turns to the table and deposits their breakfast. Sherlock’s eyebrows raise, but he accepts the mug of tea and reaches for his toast without complaint.

John notes the angle in which Sherlock is holding his torso, balanced precariously against the back of the kitchen chair. His ribs are obviously still causing pain and John can feel the guilt swell in his chest as he watches the man’s stiff movements. Clearing his throat around the sudden obstruction, John wonders if the bathroom cabinet survived Mrs. Hudson’s halfhearted purge and goes to check. John digs through the cupboard until he finds a bottle of Nurofen. The expiration date is nearly a year out, but they’ll be fine. Sherlock accepts the pills and swallows them without water, still watching John with unflappable concentration.

“You have questions,” Sherlock finally says around a mouthful of orange marmalade.

John can feel his body tensing as he leans against the countertop and tries valiantly to relax. “I do,” he says instead. At Sherlock’s quirked eyebrow, John continues. “Where the hell have you been, Sherlock? You _died_ , or at least you pretended to. It’s been three years. Where have you been?”

Sherlock’s shoulders visibly sag and he takes his time chewing before he replies. “There were things I needed to do, things that needed sorting out before I could come back to you. Moriarty was clever, _very_ clever and his threats were not entirely stable. You had to believe I was dead, everyone did. That was the only way I could ensure your safety.”

John can feel himself nodding, trying to absorb the details and failing miserably. “But where have you _been_?”

“I’ve been here, in London.”

John’s whole body shudders at the admission and he can feel the anger, ever present beneath the surface, rising alarmingly. “You mean to tell me you’ve been flitting around London for three sodding _years_ while I’ve been… visiting your grave and crying over your sorry arse this whole bloody time?”

“John,” Sherlock says and he actually sounds a little worried now. “It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t off having adventures without you or whatever it is you’re imagining. I’ve been in hiding, living amongst the homeless network and tracking Moriarty’s snipers. It’s not been a picnic, John.”

“You had it all mapped out, didn’t you? My entire life stretched out before you like a giant diagram of the underground. So tell me, Sherlock,” he spits the name between them, flung out like a vitriolic curse. “Which part of _this_ conversation isn’t going quite as planned?”

Sherlock is looking carefully vacant, his movements precise and practiced as he stirs sugar into his delicate china tea cup. The blank expression is grating on John’s nerves and he can feel the swell of grief running just below his racing pulse.

“You left me,” John says, cursing his voice for breaking on the jagged words. “You _left_ me, Sherlock. Completely alone.”

Sherlock finally snaps. “You were _not_ alone, John. For gods sake, stop being so melodramatic. Do you think I would leave you to rot in your sorrow? I was there, every day. I watched you as you went through the movements of life, a life continuing on _without_ me, and it nearly killed me. Don’t think for even a second that I wasn’t suffering just as much.” The effort of the emotional tirade seems to be draining Sherlock of energy and there’s a dull flush of pink painting his cheeks. John can feel his resolve crumbling, but he holds on to his anger like a safety net.

“Why couldn’t you tell me, Sherlock? I would have taken any scrap of evidence, you know that. Is it…” John’s voice wavers, “Is it that you didn’t trust me?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t you understand I was trying to protect you, John!” he explodes, standing up from the table and knocking his chair over backwards. He takes three long strides and before John can blink, he feels Sherlock’s hands digging into his biceps, pushing him back until he slams into the hallway wall. They are so close now that John can feel Sherlock’s breath, faster than usual, fanning out across his cheeks. Sherlock is glaring daggers at him, but John is not backing down. Too many hurts have come between them and even though his body is betraying him, John can’t let go the awareness of loss. His mind stumbles over the years, wondering if he had passed Sherlock observing him from behind _The Guardian_ at the tube stop, or if he had been obsessively watching CCTV footage from Mycroft’s office. Had he just been too blind to notice?

Sherlock’s hands lose some of their malice and the touch turns into an unmistakable caress. “I couldn’t lose you, John,” he mutters and it seems to be a mantra. John’s breath catches a bit in the back of his throat and he can feel the grief threatening his tenuous grasp on reality. He allows the anger to seep from his muscles and simply relaxes into Sherlock’s grasp. He’s too tired to fight this anymore and although he still wants answers, he finds he doesn’t particularly care about the details at the moment.

“It’s alright,” he says instead and he feels more than hears Sherlock’s sharply indrawn breath. Ice grey eyes are boring through his closed lids and when John finally blinks his eyes open, Sherlock’s gaze is as sharp and searching as ever. “I understand the feeling,” John intones. “I lost _you_ , remember?” Sherlock’s eyebrows contract for a moment in an expression that looks remarkably like pain before he presses his forehead to John’s and simply breathes.

“John,” he whispers, but John cuts him off by pressing his lips against Sherlock’s. The intensity of the kiss buckles John’s knees and he finds himself propped against the wall by the sheer weight of Sherlock’s hands pinning him there. This kiss feels like an apology, a commitment and a promise all rolled into the slide of teeth and tongues. The world tilts again and John can pinpoint the precise moment when he decides not to give a flying fuck. Sherlock is here, alive and nothing in the world matters but this moment.

John finally breaks away to gasp “Take me to bed, Sherlock,” before sealing his mouth against the span of pale collarbone at eye level. Sherlock’s neck arches back in a gorgeous line as a response and John wonders how he had gone so long without the elegant curve of muscle and tendon against his lips. Sherlock is still too thin, but he tugs John away from the wall with surprising strength and manhandles him through the bedroom door, depositing him solidly onto the mattress before slinking onto the bed to rest between John’s spread legs. The gentleness from the morning is gone, only to be replaced by desperate need and arousal. Sherlock nearly tears John’s denims apart in his haste to remove the garment and John’s pants end up halfway down his calf before the head of his cock is enveloped in achingly wet heat. His back arches of its own accord and he hastily fumbles to remove his shirt before it too gets torn off his frame. The cool cotton sheets are a welcome contrast to his flushed and incredibly hot skin. He can feel his flesh sliding across the fabric, leaving smears of perspiration in its wake, but he can’t be bothered to care. Not when Sherlock’s clever tongue his sliding delicately under the flap of his foreskin and his hand is tugging maddeningly at the base of his scrotum. John is vaguely aware of the noises he’s making, but his left hand is tangling into remarkably soft curls and he’s trying desperately not to thrust his entire length down that beautifully long throat. Sherlock hums around his glans and John can feel the heat of his orgasm coiling already through his abdomen. Christ, when did he revert back to the adrenaline based fumbles of his teenage years?

“Sher… _Sherlock_ , stop! Stop!” he bites out, his body already protesting the loss of unrelenting suction. Sherlock glances up at him through his fringe, the tip of his tongue flicking against his frenulum and John has to close his eyes as every fantasy he’s had over the past three years suddenly dances through his mind. He swallows audibly and inches his eyes open. Sherlock’s breath is warm and humid against the head of his cock, his mouth almost obscenely red as he licks his abused lips. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that tells John he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing and has absolutely no intention of stopping.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John moans and Sherlock’s tongue licks a wet stripe from base to tip before he swallows the entire length of John’s prick in one slow slide. John feels the tip of his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat before he gives in and thrusts his hips up into the wet heat. Sherlock’s hands are fumbling around in the bed for something and before John can do more than close his eyes and arch back again, there’s a shockingly slick finger running up the crease of his arse.

John’s eyes fly open and he stills immediately. This is a bit farther than he’d intended on going, but Sherlock’s mouth is still pulling and sliding against the shaft of John’s cock and he marvels at the fact that hasn’t come yet. “ _Sherlock,”_ he groans instead, legs falling subconsciously wider and he can _feel_ Sherlock’s grin against his skin before the tip of his finger pushes past the tight ring of muscle.

“God,” John moans, fisting his hands into the sheets and holding on for dear life. His body is in constant movement now, back arching, breath heaving and limbs thrashing as Sherlock takes him apart one piece at a time. With shocking clarity, John feels Sherlock’s knuckles graze against the swell of his arse before he crooks his finger just so and brushes against John’s prostate. John’s vision whites out and he hears his own bellow of completion as he comes hard and fast against Sherlock’s tongue. He swears his heart stops for a moment before his body catches up with him and he’s sucking in great lungfuls of breath, head spinning and body thrumming with the force of his orgasm.

Sherlock is licking him clean, John realizes, tongue soft and gentle against his oversensitive flesh. John passes his shaking hand over his sweaty forehead before he huffs out a breathless laugh. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Sherlock’s dark chuckle reverberates against his hip bone and it’s almost too much. John feels the bed shift and cracks his eyes open to see Sherlock stripping off his shirt and making short work of his trousers. Within seconds, Sherlock is crawling back up John’s body to settle between his still spread knees. There’s a sharp sound of foil tearing and John is trying valiantly not to think about the implication of Sherlock’s shifting weight before he settles again, teeth catching on John’s earlobe.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he growls into John’s ear, licking a wet stripe up his neck and bracing his hands on either side of John’s shoulders.

“ _God_ yes,” John breathes, lifting his arms to wind around Sherlock’s back. John can feel the tension in Sherlock’s muscles and knows with absolute certainty that this is not going to take long. Sherlock is trembling with arousal, his cock heavy and ungodly hot against John’s inner thigh. Sherlock’s weight shifts and he slides long fingers down John’s side, lifting his right leg up and over Sherlock’s pale shoulder. Despite having come hard enough to threaten heart failure just minutes before, John feels his cock twitch feebly at the look of pure unadulterated lust in Sherlock’s intense gaze. Possessiveness wars with tenderness and before John can think to put a name to the emotion, he feels the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock push at his too-tight anus. Sherlock’s hands slide along the overheated skin of John’s arse, tilting him up and making the angle easier.

Sherlock rolls his hips and as he slides the first inch into John’s arse, John can’t help the pained noise that escapes his lips. His eyes are screwed shut as he tries to tell himself to breathe. Sherlock’s thin finger was hardly enough preparation for this, John thinks. The burning pain is enough to make his breath hitch and John feels his skin break out into a cold sweat.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock rumbles, collapsing forward and bracing his arms on either side of John’s ribs. John inhales shakily and tries to concentrate on releasing the tension in his muscles, but sensations he’s never felt before are coursing through his body and he finds it very hard to focus on anything but the feeling of Sherlock’s cock forcing its way into a too-small hole. Sherlock’s lips brush against his temple and the affection in the gesture startles John into opening his eyes. Sherlock’s face is set in concentration and John knows it’s taking all of his considerable focus not to bury himself to the hilt. That thought sends a spark of heat through John’s veins and he feels himself relax a little. Sherlock’s breath huffs out in a rush and he leans down to press a tight kiss against John’s lips.

The pain has receded mostly into a gentle ache and John experimentally tilts his hips upwards, allowing a few more inches of Sherlock’s cock to slide slowly into him. Sherlock groans and buries his face into John’s neck, planting open mouthed kisses into his skin. The sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant and John rocks back slightly again, gasping at the feeling. Sherlock’s eyes are over bright and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, rocking his hips forward until with a small slap of skin on skin, his hips bump against John’s arse. John’s eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open in shock. Sherlock is inside him, fully _inside_ him and John can feel his heart swell just a little more. Sherlock is holding himself unnaturally still and John swears he can feel the man’s heartbeat pulsing through his cock where it’s buried as deep inside John as he can be. Smiling slightly, John lifts his head and presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips, drawing the lower between his own to suck at the abused flesh. Sherlock’s gasp of arousal is all the warning John gets before he slides almost completely out and thrusts forward again, hips slamming against John’s arse.

John’s head falls back against the mattress and his hips angle up involuntarily. Something has shifted and this is _much_ better. John feels the moan nearly ripped from his throat as Sherlock’s hips crash into his hard enough to shake the bedframe. _God,_ nothing has ever felt this good in his life. John’s fingers claw vivid scratches down the length of Sherlock’s back as he tries desperately to cling on, sweat and adrenaline causing his grasp to slip. John’s cock is absolutely hard again and the maddening slide of Sherlock’s abdomen is not nearly enough. With almost inhuman strength, Sherlock shifts up, sliding his hand down the back of John’s thigh and bringing his other knee up over his shoulder as well. The change in angle pulls John’s lower back fully off the bed as Sherlock’s absurdly long legs make up the height difference between simply slamming into him and stroking steadily against John’s prostate.

“ _Christ_ ,” John groans. Sherlock’s fingers are digging into John’s arse hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises as he fucks into him, pace steadily increasing. John’s arms are braced against the headboard, but he drags his left hand forward to run along the length of his cock. The skin feels sticky and raw, but it’s too good to stop. Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed again on John’s face and the intensity of the gaze, pupils blown wide and sweat sliding down his temples is enough to push John over the edge. Sherlock’s cock brushes once more against John’s prostate and John feels his back arch ridiculously off the bed, come shooting across his stomach in sticky ropes.

“Oh _God_ , John,” Sherlock whimpers, his head falling back and his hips speeding up. John can barely breathe, but he drags his eyes open to watch Sherlock fall apart. Sherlock thrusts twice more, impossibly harder and deeper than before as his entire body stiffens, tendons standing out in his neck and jaw clenched tight. John can feel sharp hipbones pressed painfully into the muscles in his arse, but he can’t be bothered to care. Not when Sherlock is groaning his name and melting forward, all tension flooding out of him as he drapes himself fully across John’s chest.

“Jesus,” Sherlock breathes across his collarbone and John can’t help but chuckle weakly, winding his fingers into the damp curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock does weigh rather a lot when his arms are too shaky to hold himself up, but John finds he doesn’t really mind at all. John’s knees slide down Sherlock’s arms to wrap lazily around his waist instead, muscles cramped and strained, but sated nonetheless. The stale air is stifling with the heat and scent of sex, but John doesn’t care enough to move at the moment. He’s perfectly content to stay like this forever, laying prone with Sherlock’s weight pressing him back into damp sheets.

“If that’s what’s known as ‘make-up sex,’ we should definitely argue more often,” Sherlock mumbles, lips catching against the sweat slicked skin of John’s pectorals. John can’t help the burst of incredulous laughter that erupts out of him. He feels giddy and light headed, the afterglow making everything seem softer and less urgent than before.

“Well,” John starts wryly, running his fingers down the length of Sherlock’s spine and causing the man to shiver pleasantly against him, “I don’t think we’ve ever had a problem disagreeing on anything.”

Sherlock gathers enough strength to prop his bony chin up on John’s sternum. “No,” he agrees, but the smile fades off his lips almost immediately, replaced with a look of serious concentration. “I didn’t injure you, did I?” John stretches as much as he’s able, still trapped under six feet of consulting detective and though his muscles strongly protest the movement, he shakes his head. A few strained muscles are normal after the kind of activity they’ve been doing and well worth it as far as he’s concerned.

“Good,” Sherlock nods. “I would never hurt you, John,” he says and John knows instantly that Sherlock is not just talking about the vigorous sex.

“I know,” he replies. “At least not without a damn good reason,” he adds with a twist of his lips.

“I was trying to keep you safe,” Sherlock says, all traces of amusement completely gone.

“I know,” John repeats. Sherlock nods again and stretches up to press his lips against John’s forehead. The gesture is so uncharacteristically tender that John feels his heart clench and he tightens his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I never stopped,” John mumbles, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes. At the prolonged silence, John says, “Loving you, I mean.” He feels Sherlock’s back tense before he lets out a shaky breath.

“John, I…”

“I _know_ ,” John smiles and cradles Sherlock to his chest. “I know.”

::

John sighs, wondering how the hell he's supposed to explain any of the last absolutely mental 24 hours. He’s seated at a tiny café table across from his girlfriend, but all he can think about is the dull ache in his thighs where Sherlock had him pinned to the mattress not two hours ago. His face flushes slightly, but he can’t help the conspiratorial grin from spreading over his lips slowly before he catches himself and schools his features into a dull mask. This is going to be rough enough without letting his emotions run amok. He’s silently grateful for the high-necked cable knit jumper hiding the damning love bites decorating his chest.

 

John allows himself a moment of guilty pleasure at the memories, then with considerable effort turns his attentions to the innocently boring woman across from him. She hasn’t mentioned his lack of coat or the obvious absence of his cane, despite the clear opportunity to do so. Mary's face is a study in contrition. She looks worried, though she's plastered a welcoming and forgiving smile on her face.

John feels as though his chest is simply too tight to breathe. "Look, Mary," he starts, but she interrupts him.

"No, John. Listen. I'm really sorry, y'know? About yesterday. It wasn't my place to accuse you of anything. I know how hard things are for you, still. What you discuss in your therapy sessions are none of my business." Her eyes are pleading and John feels his heart break a little bit more. _Christ._

John sighs again. "It's not your fault. I'm sorry I've been secretive and on edge lately. There's just... there are things going on that even I'm not entirely aware of. I need to take some time off," he finishes lamely.

"That's a wonderful idea!" Mary exclaims, brightening at once, "It's high time we took a holiday together. How long can you take off work?"

John's stomach sinks. "No. I need time... from this. From us." Her expression falls so quickly from delight to despair and then flashes over into anger faster than John can blink.

"What on earth can you possibly mean by that?" she demands, loud enough that the other patrons of the restaurant are beginning to notice the commotion.

"I need to... sort some things," John mutters, deliberately being calm and quiet.

"Oh for gods sake!" Mary explodes, turning several faces towards them. John feels his face flushing, but he holds his ground. This was always going to be a difficult conversation, especially given his strained relationship and all the implications that have come between them. Mary has never understood his former relationship with Sherlock and he doesn't expect her to now. Hell, _he_ doesn't even understand his relationship with Sherlock, but he knows it's not fair to Mary to keep on with this sham of a romance. Mary, on the other hand, is doing her best to cause a scene and it's strangely making John's decision that much easier.

"I don't even know how on earth you could possibly think time away from _us_ is going to help with your utterly ridiculous obsession with that man," Mary is shrieking and John is glad at least for the absence of tears. "He's _dead,"_ she says finally and there's a cruel tilt to her mouth that John has never noticed before.

"He's--" John stops himself. He was about to say _he's not_ , but he's unsure how many people are aware of the fact and since Sherlock has kept his survival a secret for so long, there has to be a very good reason for it. At least, John hopes there is. He sighs, "It's complicated."

"Complicated," Mary laughs mirthlessly. "That's the largest understatement I've ever heard. You're a fool, John Watson." She spits the last statement out and then seems to immediately regret her words, but her trembling lip and rigid shoulders suggest she's not about to correct herself this far into the argument.

John feels his stomach sink as he realizes he will likely never see this woman again. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he mutters. She looks away and now he can see the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. He stands and tosses a few notes onto the table. It's more than enough to cover their meals, but he doesn't think it wise to wait for the cheque.

"Goodbye, Mary Morstan," John says sadly and turns towards home. _Home._ The guilt coiled tightly in his gut eases slightly at the thought. Sherlock is home, likely flung across the old leather sofa or else pacing restlessly back and forth across the ancient floorboards, sawing away at his violin as he waits for John to come back to him.

His life is immeasurably more complicated with Sherlock, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. With his heart considerably lighter, John rounds the corner towards the tube station wondering what exactly he’ll find when he gets back to Baker Street. Sherlock is maddeningly unstable and outlandishly rude and he brings nothing but chaos and insanity into John’s life, but John wouldn’t have it any other way. Tomorrow, they’ll discuss Sherlock’s inevitable return to society and all the complications that go along with such a feat, but for now, John is simply content to have Sherlock all to himself.

John’s phone pings and he fishes it out of his trouser pocket, ignoring the cold wind that snakes through the wool of his jumper.

_Your prolonged absence is completely unacceptable. Come home. SH_

Huffing out a small laugh, John quickens his pace and reaches the tube in record time.

_On my way now you impatient tosser_

_Pick up Chinese on the way. Contents of fridge startling to say the least. SH_

John laughs and presses his Oyster card to the ticket machine. Before he can think better of it, and before he loses service to the underground, he types out three words and hits send without breathing.

_I love you_

Before he even steps into the train car, his phone pings again.

_Likewise. SH_

 

 

_So I was lost, go count the cost_  
 _Before you go to the holland road_  
 _With your heart like a stone you spared no time in lashing out_  
 _And I knew your pain and the effect of my shame, but you cut me down_  
 _You cut me down_  
 _~Holland Road, Mumford & Sons_


End file.
